Sunshine and Sweet Peas in Nightingale Square

Summary

~*~ ‘Pour out the Pimm’s, pull out the deckchair and lose yourself in this lovely, sweet, summery story!’ MILLY JOHNSON ~*~The heart-warming new novel from the Sunday Times bestselling author, perfect for fans of Carole Matthews, Milly Johnson and Cathy Bramley

Kate is on the run from her almost-divorced husband who is determined to have her back, and she has found the perfect place to hide... a little cottage on Nightingale Square in Norwich, far away from her old life in London. But the residents of Nightingale Square don't take no for an answer, and Kate soon finds herself pulled into a friendship with Lisa, her bossy but lovely new neighbour.

Within a matter of days Kate is landed with the job of campaigning the council to turn the green into a community garden, meanwhile all the residents of Nightingale Square are horrified to discover that the Victorian mansion house on the other side of the square has been bought by developers. But when all hope is lost, the arrival of a handsome stranger is sure to turn things around!

Heidi Swain is the perfect summer read - you'll want to find your own green space, stretch out in the sun and dive into life at Nightingale Square.

‘Wise, warm and wonderful – a real summertreat!’ heat magazine

'A fabulous feel good read – a ray of reading sunshine!’ LAURA KEMP, author of A Year of Surprising Acts of Kindness

'This book had it all for me! A beautiful setting, likeable characters and a wonderful plot. I was captivated from the first chapter. A charming book you will not want to put down!' NetGalley Reviewer

‘I loved Sunshine and Sweet Peas in Nightingale Square. I always want to be best mates with the characters in Heidi’s books and this was no exception. A lovely summer read for fans of women’s fiction’ Bookworm Alice

'Absolutely delightful. There were so many twists and yet, it never went over the top, that's what I loved about it. I would absolutely recommend it to those who want to spend time with a lovely book in the summer. Get your cosiest spot and your choice of drink and read this book!' NetGalley Reviewer

'Worth far more than five stars - it's an amazing book, so well written and I just couldn't put it down. Has amazing characters and wonderful settling and plot to the story with many twists and turns' NetGalley Reviewer

'I’d love to live in Nightingale Square and be part of the community garden.I want to be friends with the characters. A lovely read for a spring/ summer evening' NetGalley Reviewer

~*~ What everyone is saying about Heidi Swain's other novels ~*~

‘Sparkling and romantic’ My Weekly

'Sprinkled with Christmas sparkle' Trisha Ashley, author of The LIttle Teashop of Lost and Found

'A big, fat, cosy hug of a read... it will leave you with a warm glow!' Mandy Baggot, author of Those Summer Nights

'A story that captures your heart - engaging characters, a gorgeous setting and chickens! A winning formula' Chrissie Barlow, author of Evie's Year of Taking Chances

Book Preview

Sunshine and Sweet Peas in Nightingale Square - Heidi Swain

eyes.

Chapter 1

Eight years later

‘What I don’t understand is why you feel you have to go at all.’

This had been the initial reaction from David when I told him I was moving out of our house and leaving London for good, and he had been adding to his arguments to try and make me stay every day during the weeks that followed.

‘There’s absolutely no reason why you should go,’ he had said when he realised I was actually serious about making a clean break and not playing some game of cat and mouse.

My days of playing at anything were well and truly over, but I had struggled to make him believe it. I had struggled to make myself believe it for a while. There had been times when his offers to start over had sounded almost appealing but in the end, I knew I couldn’t live with a half-arsed happy ending. There was no way now that I could ever have what I had once been so content to forgo and what was left over simply wasn’t enough. It was all a far cry from the promises we had made on our honeymoon eight years ago.

‘I’ve left you alone, haven’t I?’ he now said reasonably.

He had. In fact, he had behaved impeccably throughout the proceedings and complied with every stipulation my legal team had suggested.

‘I’ve moved out,’ he continued, ‘even told you that you can have this place, every last brick of it and that solicitor of yours has already screwed me for more than half of the business.’

‘The business that we grew and developed together,’ I gently reminded him.

‘Yes,’ he said, slumping down on the sofa, ‘sorry. I know it’s what you’re entitled to. I just can’t bear the thought of you being so far away and it’s making me say stupid things.’

‘I’m not going to be that far away,’ I sighed, ‘and besides, you lost all rights to keeping me close when you—’

I bit my tongue to stop the words tumbling out and reminded myself that it was my badgering which had triggered the ruinous chain of events in the first place.

‘I know I did,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘I know, but there are only so many times I can say sorry without it losing its meaning.’

He sounded absolutely miserable and I cursed the naivety which had led me to think that I could bend him to my will once we’d settled companionably into married life. Had I respected the bargain we’d struck, his friends would still be marvelling at the fact that I’d somehow tamed ‘the old rascal’ with the dire reputation whom they all loved so much.

‘Talking of the business,’ he said, thankfully changing tack, ‘Francesca Lucca was asking after you today. She wanted to know if you’d found anything for that new place of hers in Florence.’

I stopped packing and stood with my hands on my hips.

‘Please don’t tell me you haven’t told her.’

‘How can I?’ David shrugged. ‘She’s a good Catholic woman. Divorce doesn’t feature on her radar.’

‘Well, it didn’t feature on mine until you—’ I stopped myself again and took another deep breath.

It was a miracle that our sniping had never escalated into anything really regrettable, but it was getting harder rather than easier. This move was happening just in the nick of time as we strove to keep our increasingly terse exchanges on the right side of civilised.

‘Well, you’ll just have to look after her yourself now, won’t you?’ I told him bluntly.

David and I had built up our bespoke business, travelling the world sourcing antiques, artefacts and curios which would delight our list of discerning clients, who were prepared to pay handsomely for the ‘seeker’ service we provided. Francesca Lucca was one of our wealthiest and fussiest and she had always preferred to work with me rather than ‘that naughty boy’. At almost fifteen years older than me I couldn’t see David as a boy, but she was spot on with the ‘naughty’ tag.

‘Are you leaving all of these?’ he asked, pointing at a little side table which was full of photographs.

‘Yes,’ I shrugged, averting my eyes and wondering if he’d noticed I was no longer wearing my wedding band. ‘I have a head full of memories, David. I don’t need photographs as well.’

There was one picture I had kept, though. It was taken the summer we met, just before my final year at university. I hadn’t wanted to go home for the holidays, so needed to work to pay my rent. I had ventured into an antique shop after a particularly awful interview for a job in a fast-food chain, hoping to be appeased by looking at beautiful things.

Galleries and museums were my usual go-to soothers, but access to the shop was both conveniently close by and free. It belonged to a friend of David’s and the man himself happened to be there bartering over the price of a small statue. They somehow roped me into their conversation and the shy, gauche twenty-year-old I was at the time fell hard for the sophisticated smart-talking man who paid over the odds for an art deco figure just because I said I liked it.

‘Let me take you out to lunch,’ he had said once we left the cool emporium and were outside in the heat of the midday sun. ‘It’ll soften the hit my bank balance has just taken.’

I insisted on paying and the only thing I could afford was burgers and chips which we ate outside under the shade of a tree in the park. It was a strange beginning, an unusual afternoon by any standard, but by the end of it I had a job to see me through the summer and a heart brimming with love that my housemates warned me was bound to end in heartbreak.

Heartbreak . . .

‘You can keep them,’ I said quickly, returning to my half-filled box. ‘And the statue.’

I had always assumed that when relationships came to a difficult end there was shouting and recriminations, drama and things being thrown and torn, but our untangling hadn’t been like that at all.

‘If only I could hate you,’ I sighed, wishing that, in spite of everything, I wasn’t still a little bit in love with him.

I had watched other people’s relationships break down and they seemed to instantaneously lead to loathing and bitterness, but I couldn’t get anywhere near either emotion, even though the repercussions of what David had done had been so mortifying. Perhaps if I hadn’t felt so responsible for the mess our relationship had become I would have been able to conjure something stronger, but I did feel responsible and therefore I couldn’t.

‘If only I could at least really lose my temper with you,’ I said out loud, while wondering if an angry outburst would purge me of some of the pain.

‘Perhaps you can’t lay into me because we aren’t meant to go our separate ways,’ David said hopefully. ‘If you really can’t hate me then perhaps that means we should try and patch things up. I could go to therapy, counselling or something.’

I knew that all the counselling in the world wouldn’t be able to give me the outcome I had been craving.

‘No, David,’ I said firmly, ‘absolutely not. The decision’s been made and now we have to stick to it. I want to stick to it,’ I reminded him, just in case he was still labouring under the illusion that there was a glimmer of hope for us.

‘Where did you say you were moving to again?’ he asked quickly, trying to catch me off guard as he stood back up.

‘I didn’t.’

It had been hard not telling him about my new home in Norwich. It was neatly nestled in a place called Nightingale Square and sat opposite a grand Victorian pile called Prosperous Place. The pile was just the sort of property we had been employed to furnish and I knew he would have been as intrigued by its fascinating history as I was.

‘But it’s not all that far,’ I added. ‘And you can get in touch via my solicitor, should you need to. Try not to get into too much mischief now you’re young, free and single again, won’t you?’

‘I only want to be one of those,’ he said sadly.

And that summed up part of the problem, which I had realised far too late; there was a piece of David which had always been the naughty boy who didn’t want to grow up.

Chapter 2

Being a cash buyer, and buying from a vendor with no chain, meant that the purchase of the house was simplicity itself and as the survey didn’t throw up anything untoward I was able to leave London and David’s broken vows behind almost immediately. Thankfully I could afford to take a year out, which would give me time to adjust to life on my own and update my new home.

I was very happy to be moving to somewhere where no one knew me. My London friends had all been David’s friends originally and the majority were nearer his age than mine. It was only natural that when the moment came they had rallied round, but then drifted back into his orbit. I didn’t mind that my own was empty. In fact, the clean slate this move was offering had become the one welcoming beacon in the sea of sadness I had been treading water in.

‘Thanks for everything,’ I called from the gate as the removals men set off back to London with a hefty tip, and heartfelt thanks, for lugging about and rearranging some of the furniture that had been left behind.

‘You’re welcome love. Good luck.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, heading back down the path, but not before I’d spotted some curtain-twitching antics in the house on my right. ‘A little bit of luck wouldn’t go amiss,’ I muttered as I closed the door and surveyed my box-filled new abode.

I was annoyed that my mother had been right about everything, even if she had miscalculated the timing; however, it had been one of her perfectly crafted comments which had led me to Norwich rather than back to Wynbridge. ‘You know it’s the only sensible thing to do,’ she had said while trying to convince me to return home, and she was right. Returning to my childhood home and the nurturing embrace of my family would have been the ‘sensible’ thing to do, and that was exactly what stopped me doing it.

As out of character as it was, I didn’t much feel like being sensible any more and I certainly didn’t feel up to facing the head-bobs and pitying glances that I knew would be waiting for me in the flat Fenlands of Wynbridge should I return home to nurse my broken heart.

It had been my brother, Tom, whom I had called on for support when I found what looked, online at least, like the perfect sanctuary for an emotionally drained, and soon-to-be divorced, thirty-year-old woman who was having to face the rigours of creating a whole new life for herself because her seemingly perfect happy ever after had fallen so spectacularly apart.

Smiling out from the screen the little house in Nightingale Square looked like the answer to my prayers. Somewhere unassuming I could hide away in and nurse my shattered soul in peace and privacy. Yes, I had fallen head over heels in love with it at first sight, and yes, that was admittedly an impulsive trait which hadn’t served me well in the past, but I had everything crossed that it was going to be just the distraction I needed.

My sister-in-law, Jemma, however, hadn’t been convinced.

‘Are you sure Jemma can spare you?’ I asked Tom as we made arrangements to view the house via Skype.

It was interesting that practically everyone in the family still assumed I considered Wynbridge my ‘home’ even though I had left over a decade ago for university and hadn’t properly lived there since.

‘Norwich is hardly the other end of the earth,’ I reminded her as her knitted brow popped into view and I cringed at the thought of moving back into my childhood bedroom.

‘But it’s hardly next door either, is it, Kate?’ she pouted back.

‘It’s only two hours away, Jem. One hundred and twenty short minutes along the A47, that’s all.’

‘That feels like two days with this pair in the back,’ she moaned on, jerking her head in the direction of where my feisty niece and nephew were tucking into their dinner. ‘We just want to look after you. You’ve been through so much . . .’

‘I’ll be there,’ Tom cut in, ‘but I’m not telling Mum.’

The train journey from Liverpool Street to Norwich had given me ample opportunity to mull over the nightmarish events of the previous few months and strengthen my resolve that not moving back to Wynbridge was the right thing to do. I had stared out of the window as the world flashed by, the landscape becoming steadily cleaner and greener.

I just knew that the house was going to be the ideal bolt-hole for me; it was still in a city, albeit a far smaller one than London, but it would offer the same urban level of anonymity I craved and that was just as appealing as the original sash windows and stained-glass panelling in the front door.

I had initially been drawn to Norwich because of its history and unusual castle. The fact that it wasn’t somewhere I was familiar with was an added bonus. The newness of it all certainly felt right. I didn’t want to live somewhere where memories and ghosts lurked around every corner, threatening to leap out and remind me of all that had gone before. My life was facing an unexpected fresh start and Norwich was a blank page with a fascinating past that I was looking forward to learning more about. Besides which, it conveniently put enough miles between me and Wynbridge to stop the family popping in to re-stock the fridge every five minutes, yet was close enough for an organised day trip.

‘You’re too thin,’ Tom had predictably said when he hugged me at the station, ‘and you have bags the size of suitcases. I had rather hoped Skype was just showing you in a bad light, but . . .’

‘I’m heartbroken,’ I answered him simply, but truthfully. ‘What did you expect?’

I dreaded to think what he would have said had he known the details of everything I’d had to cope with. Had it simply been a case of good old-fashioned infidelity which had pulled my marriage apart, as I had let everyone believe, I might have been able to gradually piece it back together, but there had ended up being so much more to it than that and not even my rose-tinted desire for a Disney-inspired happy ever after could make me forget it.

‘But you still don’t hate him?’ Tom frowned.

‘No, I still don’t hate him.’

Had my brother been privy to the part I had played in the catastrophe, and the colossal guilt I lugged about as a result, he would have understood why I was incapable of hating David for what he had done. I knew that had I not tried to force my beloved into changing his mind about something I had been so readily prepared to sacrifice when we first met, then our marriage would have merrily skipped along much the same as it had for the last few years. I would have still been living my fairy-tale dream rather than sweeping up the leftovers of a Hammer House Horror.

You see, I was a firm believer in one true love, a fully paid up member of the club in fact and now I had been blackballed. I had single-handedly screwed up my one shot at eternal happiness, and David’s too, so hate was an emotion I simply couldn’t reach, unless of course you counted the self-loathing which crept in during the darkest hours of the night.

‘Mum would have forty fits if she could see you,’ Tom tutted as he slipped his arm through mine and studied my face.

I knew my blue eyes had lost their sparkle and my usually jaunty ponytail was a little on the limp side, but thankfully he forbore to comment further.

‘Of course she would,’ I agreed, refusing to give in to the tears his familiar and comforting bulk threatened to unleash. ‘And that’s exactly why I don’t want you to show her how to Skype.’

I knew it wasn’t fair, my selfish desire to keep her at arm’s length, but the sticking plaster she would try to apply to cover the hurt would be accompanied at some point by the inevitable, ‘I did try and warn you, Kate.’ And I was nowhere near ready to admit that I hadn’t heeded a single one of her warnings but had rushed, like a giddy schoolgirl, headlong into trust and consequently, heartbreak.

Not that the blow had struck within the rather mean six months she had given us on our wedding day, but it had come nonetheless, and I sometimes wondered if she was as furious for herself as she was for me. My mother, as David had predicted, hadn’t been easy to win over, but his unremitting charm and flattery had worn her down in the end; I couldn’t help thinking she felt as much of a fool as I did, albeit for very different reasons.

‘I did warn you it was a bit of a hole,’ the estate agent, who was leaning against a sleek black Audi, had called out before he had even introduced himself when Tom had pulled into Nightingale Square. ‘I hope you aren’t already thinking you’ve wasted your time. You are Mrs Harper?’

I had winced, jarred out of my stupor by the sound of my married name as it tripped off his lips.

‘Yes,’ I remember nodding, ‘I’m Kate.’

The estate agent matched the clichéd image I had conjured up during our telephone conversations to a T. The second he had discovered where I was travelling from he had assumed I had London money to throw around and then spent most of his time trying to convince me to look at far bigger properties with far more impressive postcodes, but my heart was already set on Nightingale Square and keeping the rest of my money safely in the bank.

My eyes had swept beyond him to the slightly wonky wooden gate and overgrown front garden and I realised that the house, which was the smallest of seven situated around a lush, fenced-in green, was just like me. Clearly it had been loved once, but was now in need of a little TLC. The clever wide-lens photographs online had played down the shabby state of the place, but I didn’t care about that at all. I was in love with it and its interesting story already.

My fascination with history had led to me spending hours on the internet and in the library researching all about the Square and the man with the philanthropic vision who had built it. Burying myself in the past was thankfully still the one thing that I found I could focus on doing for longer than five minutes.

Charles Wentworth had been the wealthy owner of one of the twenty-six shoe factories which, from around 1860, had overtaken weaving as the main industry in Norwich and, from what I could deduce, he was the perfect man, the archetypal romantic hero. Not that I was sure I still entirely believed in them any more, my faith having received a hefty knock, but as he was consigned to the history books, I reckoned he was about as close to perfection as I was likely to get.

An astute businessman, with a heart as large as his financial resources, he had chosen to live in the sprawling Victorian mansion house which stood directly opposite the factory, so he could keep an eye on his investment. Once satisfied with the set-up he had then overseen the building of seven homes on the land in between to accommodate the factory managers and their families.

Once upon a time there had also been houses for the general workers but they, along with practically everything else from that time, were gone now. The back to back terraces had been demolished decades ago, replaced with larger, more attractive, villa-style properties with gardens, and the former factory site now housed a row of little shops.

From what I could make out, the only things left of Mr Wentworth’s legacy were Nightingale Square and his home Prosperous Place which, I had noticed when I turned around to admire it, also happened to be for sale and looked to be in a similar state to the house I had set my heart on.

From what I had read, Charles Wentworth had left his family well provided for, but in earning his fortune he hadn’t stepped on anyone’s toes or exploited any of his workers as so many others did at that time and I hoped his descendants were proud to be related to such a worthy forefather.

‘Shall we get on?’ I had said to the agent, my eyes moving back to the gate.

‘Of course,’ he had smiled, his misplaced confidence restored. ‘I’m Toby Fransham by the way. Let’s have a quick look here and I’ll take you to view a couple of those hi-tech new-builds I was telling you about, next to the bypass. This place might be dead in the water, but those beauties on the other hand . . .’

‘Are worth twice as much in commission,’ Tom had cut in before I had a chance.

The golden glow of a late September afternoon showed the house in a halcyon light, but as I stepped over the threshold, stooping to pick up the pile of post that had become wedged behind the front door, I knew the place would have seduced me even in the depths of winter.

‘It’s been in the same family ever since it was built,’ Toby Fransham had sniffed as Tom quickly steered him along the hall towards where the kitchen led to the garden. ‘The last resident lived here all her life, but by the looks of it she never had much done by way of modernisation, hence the price.’

‘You said the family were keen to secure a sale,’ I had called after him. ‘I do like the place, Mr Fransham, but I’m not about to make a fool of myself over money.’

He had carried on while I took my time exploring first the little sitting room with the bay window which overlooked the front garden, and then the dining room with the intensely swirling orange and brown carpet that led to the archaic kitchen. There was a large cupboard under the stairs and as I followed them up, I found a double bedroom at the front, and two singles, one of which you had to walk through to access the bathroom. Although the avocado suite and MFI kitchen had clearly been fitted a long time ago, everything appeared to be in working order, despite a thin layer of dust.

‘What do you think?’ Tom had asked when he caught up with me as I was looking out of the front bedroom window again.

There was an uninterrupted view across the green to Prosperous Place and I imagined Mr Wentworth and his wife doing the rounds, making sure everyone was happy and that the houses were all up to scratch. The vision was almost enough to stir my jaded romantic heart a little.

‘I think I could be happy here,’ I had sighed, bracing myself for the arguments against buying the place that my sensible brother was bound to come up with. ‘In spite of the . . . interesting upholstery.’

I hoped he wasn’t going to protest too strongly because I was amazed that I had even entertained the idea that I could ever be happy again, let alone suggested it out loud.

‘I think you could too,’ he had agreed, taking me completely by surprise. ‘This place is right up your street, isn’t it?’

‘You don’t think I should be moving back to Wynbridge then?’

‘No,’ he had said, taking my hand and giving it a squeeze. ‘You don’t need us lot fussing around you, and like you said to Jemma, it’s only a couple of hours away in the car.’

‘Thanks, Tom,’ I had said, smiling up at him and feeling relieved.

‘There’s plenty to do here,’ he acknowledged, looking around at the few bits of furniture that had been left behind and the thick gloss paint that covered the little fireplace and mouldings, ‘but that’s no bad thing. It’ll keep your mind off—’

‘Come on then,’ I had interrupted before my mind was filled with what I was moving here to forget. ‘Let’s go and find Mr Toby Fransham and tell him he needs to keep looking for someone else to stick in those new-builds he’s so fond of.’

Considering we were standing on the pavement in the middle of a city, there had been little to hear beyond a lone scolding blackbird and the distant rumble of the ring road. It was a far cry from the constant barrage I had grown accustomed to in my marital home in London.

‘I daresay it livens up a bit in the evenings when everyone comes home from work,’ Tom had said when I commented on the quiet. ‘There’ll probably be cars parked everywhere then.’

‘You aren’t trying to put me off buying it all of a sudden, are you?’ I had responded as a movement behind an upstairs curtain in a house on my right caught my eye.

‘You’re actually thinking of putting in an offer, are you?’ asked an astounded Mr Fransham, who until that moment had been annoyingly engrossed in something on his phone.

‘I most certainly am,’ I had quickly replied. ‘I’m going to suggest seven less than the asking price.’

He had drawn in a sharp breath and shook his head. It was the classic estate agent’s reaction to hearing numbers they didn’t like.

‘I’m not sure they’ll go for that,’ he had frowned. ‘And the office rang a minute ago to say there’s been another enquiry about the place today.’

I had been pretty certain that he was bluffing. The girl I had spoken to had told me the place had been languishing on their books for well over a year.

‘Well, they won’t get a penny more out of whoever buys it, with that disaster of a bathroom still in situ, will they?’ I had told him briskly. ‘And I know it’s been empty through one harsh winter already, so I’m fairly confident the vendor will snatch my hand off.’

Tom had winked and then began to laugh.

‘I’ll be in the city for the rest of the day,’ I had shouted as I marched purposefully back to the car and Mr Fransham muttered something about number crunching. ‘Let’s just see if we can get the ball rolling before I’m back on the train, shall we?’

I had felt certain I wasn’t going to need to worry about crunching anything.

‘I thought you were down,’ Tom had beamed as he helped me with my seatbelt because my hands were suddenly shaking so much.

‘I am,’ I had willingly confirmed, ‘but when it comes to parting with money, I’m not completely out.’

Less than an hour later my offer had been accepted and I had started to brace myself to face a change of life that I didn’t feel at all ready for; but at least lovely Nightingale Square was as good a place to be moving to as any.

I was interrupted from my musings by a sharp rap on the front door knocker. This was wholly unexpected and I froze, a mug in one hand and a jar of coffee in the other, staring at the door and the silhouette the other side of it. Another knock finally galvanised me into action.

‘Sorry,’ the woman was apologising before I’d even seen her warm smile and friendly hazel eyes. ‘Sorry. I know you’ve literally only just arrived and I don’t want to interrupt your unpacking, but I thought you might like these.’

She nudged a carrier bag at her feet and it was only then that I noticed she had a smallish child tucked under one arm and a pumpkin under the other.

‘Well, not this, obviously,’ she laughed, hoisting the boy a little higher up her hip, ‘but the pumpkin and sweets are all yours if you want them.’

I was at a loss.

‘It’s Hallowe’en,’ she explained, her smile faltering as she no doubt began to wonder whether I was going to say anything at all. ‘The Square will be crawling with kids by teatime and I thought if you put these on your step you might get some peace.’

‘Right,’ I said, transferring the jar and mug to one hand before stooping to pick up the bag, ‘sorry. Thanks. That’s very kind of you.’

‘When I spotted the lorry turn up I thought you probably wouldn’t have had time to sort anything for yourself.’

The little boy under her arm began to wriggle so she set him down.

‘Do you want to come in?’ I asked. ‘I’ve just found the coffee and some mugs.’

‘Well, as long as you’re sure.’

I wasn’t really, but I hadn’t expected a neighbour, assuming that’s who she was, to descend so soon after my arrival and I wasn’t familiar with Nightingale Square’s visitor etiquette yet either. In London I didn’t know a single one of my neighbours. I probably couldn’t have picked them out in a line-up.